Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Fallon
“Let me get this straight. He gives you what sounds like a toe-curling public orgasm, he puts you on your knees, his aftercare includes a gentle scalp massage, he tucks you into bed, makes you breakfast the next morning, and you tell him thanks but no thanks.”
Daniel Corvus is an asshole, and I’m regretting letting my friend talk me into coming out to this art gallery event. And not only because people Marina knew are here. With this line of questioning, he’s about to be my former friend.
“I’ll be honest, at the time, I wasn’t paying much attention to what my toes were doing.
” I’m doing my best not to squirm under Daniel’s intense gaze like a child whose hand was caught in a jar of cookies.
That the best sex of my life happened without me even taking off my clothes is something I’m not ready to admit out loud.
Daniel’s only response is the subtle rise of his right eyebrow.
I avoid his gaze and sip the champagne in my hand while I search for a reasonable excuse. I’ve been searching for weeks already with no solid answer. “At the time, I didn’t feel ready for more. We agreed to be friends.”
Does that mean I don’t jerk off every night, and some mornings in the shower, and occasionally after I go for a run, thinking about our night together? It does not.
Daniel stares for a while at a painting of what appears to be a young man with a sword, holding the severed head of a dragon. “I hate this.”
“Marina would have liked it, I think. Her work was pretty bloody.”
He turns to me. “I don’t mean the fucking painting.
I hate seeing my friend stuck like a fly preserved in amber.
You have the right to take as long as you need before you’re ready to love again, but I have to ask if you’re really not ready, or if even in death, Marina is still making all of your decisions. ”
For a second, I swear the flow of my blood screeches to a halt. “Jesus, Daniel, tell me how you really feel.”
He jabs a hard finger into my chest. “You are not grieving, you are languishing. You’re so guilt-ridden over Marina’s death that you won’t allow yourself to admit how angry with her you truly are, and you won’t fix anything by making yourself miserable.
For fuck’s sake, if this were Victorian times, you’d have been allowed to cast off your widow’s weeds by now. And that thing too.”
He glances down at the gold cuff on my wrist. Marina’s compromise, since I never wanted to wear a collar.
My fingers twitch. Many times I’ve nearly taken the thing off. More since my night with PJ. It feels wrong to take it off. It feels wrong to wear it still. Daniel’s right. I am stuck.
He’s also right that I’m angry. “How else am I supposed to feel when I go to bed after my wife tells me, after a decade together, that she thinks she stayed with me out of obligation, that my submission, my caring for her, meant so little, and then the next morning the Sheriff’s department is calling to tell me she’s gone.
And I can never take the things I said to her back.
” It’s as if Daniel’s jabbing poked a hole in the wall that was holding all these things at bay that I hadn’t acknowledged.
“Sorry.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t know where that came from.”
My friend’s expression softens. “What happened was a tragedy. Whatever you said to her, I do not doubt that it was a legitimate response to the way she hurt you. You’re allowed to be angry with her, even though she’s dead. Most of all, you must stop blaming yourself.”
“PJ said the same thing.”
“PJ did, did he?”
“The guy I told you about. We’ve been texting,” I admit.
“Oh?” The way that smug bastard has his eyebrows hiked up to his hairline, I swear to God.
“Just chatting. He’s been a good friend.”
Because some things feel too intimate, I keep it to myself about how the morning after we hooked up, I found the sales slip for the breakfast PJ brought me.
And the bank receipt, with the time stamp showing he’d withdrawn cash beforehand.
He spent nearly half of what was left in his account buying me breakfast.
I was…touched. I sent him a text to thank him for the food. It all went downhill from there.
Or uphill? It depends.
“A good friend? Just chatting?” Daniel asks.
I turn to focus on the next painting on the wall—a sad-looking tiger in a circus cage—but I swear I can feel Daniel’s stare burning a hole in the side of my face.
“Are you planning to repeat everything I say?”
“Haven’t decided yet. What have you and your new friend been chatting about?”
Dammit, I don’t owe him any explanation. But Daniel’s one of the few friends who stuck around after Marina was gone. One of the few who understands.
“You know, the standard getting-to-know-you stuff. I told him I used to be a writer.”
“You’re still a writer.”
“Who hasn’t written in a year.”
Daniel, who typically reminds me of a wise older man in a thirty-five-year-old body, dares to roll his eyes. “And?”
“He works in…cleaning? Like a custodian, I think. I can’t remember exactly. He doesn’t talk about it much.”
“And?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Random stuff. He likes romantic comedies and animal documentaries. He has a pet cockatoo. His favorite food is pizza.”
After an uncomfortable pause where I can still feel Daniel staring at me, I add, “Did you know zebras aren’t just pretty horses? They’re more aggressive. Sometimes they even kill lions.”
“Hmm” is my friend’s only reply.
“Well. I thought it was interesting.” If PJ telling me on a video call while shirtless was also interesting, that doesn’t need to be mentioned.
We trail quietly past a wall of up-and-coming local artists, past an enlarged photograph of a hummingbird, a charcoal sketch of a mansion perched on a rocky hillside, and a painting that appears to depict a child crying on a snow-covered beach.
I pretend to contemplate another with a woman in a mourning dress standing at the center of a labyrinth. I think I know how she feels.
All the while, my friend’s narrowed eyes are still focused on the side of my face.
“Okay, what?” I finally ask. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
He gives me a smile that’s all warmth and no teeth. “And?”
Oh my fucking God. I clench my jaw and fists, trying to hold it all in. The emotions, the frustration, and the truth he somehow senses and is trying to drag out of me. My body tenses with my determination, my refusal to let him win.
And then I blurt it out anyway.
“Sometimes when I’m having trouble sleeping, he calls me on video and forces me to jerk off. Then he talks to me until I’m tired.”
Daniel’s smile tells me he’s gotten what he was after, as if I didn’t already know.
Or maybe not, because he leans closer and murmurs, “He forces you?”
“Well. Of course not. We’re on the phone. He just…tells me to.” Sometimes he only asks, but that’s all it takes.
“And you do it because…?”
“Because I like it when he tells me what to do.” The admission sets my face on fire. My blood is rushing south just thinking about it. “Oh my God.” I suck in a deep, slow breath and let it out. “What are you, some kind of wizard?”
I never knew a laugh could sound smug, but somehow my friend has managed it. “But you’re only friends?”
There’s not much for me to say, because I know how ridiculous this all sounds. “He’s twenty-four, Daniel. Neither of us is in the right place for a relationship. We’ve agreed.”
“So when are you seeing him again?”
This time, I’m the one who rolls their eyes. “He said he’d come to my brother’s end-of-summer barbecue. For moral support.”
“As a friend.”
“Yes.” I manage to spit the word through my teeth.
He’s laughing again. “I didn’t realize you were this much of a masochist.”
“I’m not.”
My phone alerts me to an incoming message.
It’s from PJ, so I can’t stop myself from looking.
As soon as I see it, though, I wish I hadn’t.
It’s a photo of PJ in a dark suit, wearing a blue button-up shirt that sets off his eyes.
The shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, and there is no tie. He looks absolutely gorgeous.
It’s the caption, though, that gets me. Dinner date tonight. Do I look okay?
An ugly voice in my head suggests that I lie. Or tell him to cancel. Beg, even. Let him know if he wants to have dinner somewhere, my door is open. I can make him feel better than whoever he’s going out with. Better yet, I could show up at his date tonight. “accidentally” bump into him there.
Only I wasn’t lying when I told Daniel I didn’t think either of us is in the right place for a relationship.
“Not a masochist? Now I know why your eyes are brown. You’re completely full of shit.”
I jump. “Stop looking at my screen.”
Daniel shrugs. “Curiosity.”
His grin widens when I send the only thing I can think of in reply to PJ’s message. You look amazing.
Because he does. And if I wish I were the one who got to take his clothes off of him at the end of tonight, if I hate that he’s going out to dinner with someone who isn’t me? Well, I’m the one who created this situation.
“You could tell him you changed your mind, you know?”
“Are you an actual psychic? Be honest.”
“With the look on your face, Fallon, I hardly need to be.”
I’m saved from having to say anything more by Tomás, the gallery owner, appearing at my side. “Fallon! I thought that was you. I’m so glad you’re here.”
He pulls me into a hug and kisses me on both cheeks. His hands stay clasped over mine as he holds me out at arm’s length, looking me up and down. “How are you holding up?”
My smile only feels sort of forced. “Doing great.”
Am I doing great? No. I’d love it, though, if I could run into people I know without the “How are you?” sounding like they’re expecting me to say I’m miserable.
“I can tell. You look great.” He gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze.
“It’s wonderful to see you out and about.
You know, I’ve been dying to reconnect. We should grab dinner sometime.
I’d love you to come with me to check out the new Beal gallery downtown.
Size up the competition, you know? Maybe there will be some new artists to scout. ”
“Uh, maybe. It could be fun. Let me know when you’re thinking of going, and I’ll check my schedule.” Whenever it is, I doubt I’ll be available.
I’m only here tonight because Daniel cajoled until I agreed. Admittedly, I needed to see a friend. And okay, fine, I also didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing when I knew PJ had plans.
“Great. I look forward to it.” Tomás beams, and I kind of feel like an ass for lying to him now. Lucky for me, his assistant bustles over and whispers something in his ear, no doubt about some super important art-related emergency.
When he walks away, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“That was so painful to watch. Like a very gentle train wreck.”
I give Daniel my best “fuck off” glare. “At least he’s one of the few people who don’t think they need to remind me what a perfect couple Marina and I were.”
“That’s because he wants to get into your pants.”
“What?” Without meaning to, I turn to study Tomás, who catches me looking and gives me a little wave.
Oh. Shit.
“What, did you think that dinner and art gallery invitation was purely platonic?”
“Of course I did. You invited me out tonight, and I didn’t think you were trying to get into my pants. You’re not, right?”
“I’m married to my work. And no offense, but you’re not my type.”
No, last I checked, Daniel was working his way through every wide-eyed twink on the Gulf Coast.
“None taken.”
Across the room, Tomás has turned his attention to his assistant, making animated gestures. He’s handsome, and he’s got one of those personalities that seems to draw in literally everybody, so if he finds me attractive, I suppose I should be flattered.
“If I were going to date someone, he’d make sense. On paper, anyway. He’s successful. Good looking. Age appropriate.”
He’s not twenty-fucking-four.
“Don’t you dare. He’s Marina two-point-oh. That’s not what you want.”
Oof. That stings…more than a little. I suppose I should applaud Daniel for being able to strike a blow without lifting a finger. It doesn’t help that he’s right.
Right or wrong, PJ is who I can’t get off my mind.
Another text alert pops up on my phone.
PJ: I’m at the Belle Argo Premiere for this charity gala to fund children’s cancer research, which is nice and all, but the theme is winter wonderland, which doesn’t make a damn bit of sense for Florida in July.
Fallon: That does sound ill advised.
PJ: They’ve got ice sculptures. Plural. This ballroom feels like a meat locker. All these rich fucks are wandering around in their fancy clothes, trying to look like they’re not freezing their asses off. You should see this shit
Fallon: Wish I could.
If I wish I were there instead of whatever nameless, faceless guy he’s with in my place, nobody needs to know that except me. Until I look up from my phone to find Daniel pinning me with a knowing smirk.
PJ: I’ll tell you all about it later. You want to FaceTime tonight?
I ignore Daniel’s pointed look. For good measure, I spend a solid four, maybe five seconds pretending I might say no before I type my reply.
Fallon: Yes. I’ll be home before midnight.